


luck and merit

by SydneyHorses



Series: Faerghus Four!Constance [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood Friends, F/F, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28106607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyHorses/pseuds/SydneyHorses
Summary: Ingrid heads to the Officer's Academy, and runs into an old friend. She handles it better than she did three years ago, at least.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Constance von Nuvelle
Series: Faerghus Four!Constance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059095
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	luck and merit

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of a fic that's near and dear to my heart! I love these girls, and I love writing them - thanks to Finch for giving me the opportunity to do so even more!!
> 
> If you think they should kiss...feel free to come talk to me, I'm dying in ultra rarepair hell. What if women kissed? Have you considered?

It’s been a long three years since Glenn died, and Ingrid has grown up some. She’s stopped seeing the world through such rose-colored glasses - they all have.

Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Count Galatea’s one and only crested child, walks into Garreg Mach with all the severity of a bride on her wedding day. She’s ready for this, no matter what it might mean.

What it means is Constance wearing a uniform that’s a size too big for her. She’s clinging to the shadows, but it’s her for certain. Ingrid’s breath catches in her throat, and she ducks behind a pillar, leaning against it. Goddess. Of all the people she had to run into.

In Faerghus, there’s legends about the dead lingering if they die with regrets. Ingrid supposes that it’s lucky she isn’t dead yet; her memories of Constance von Nuvelle are one big ball of regret that will keep her trapped in this realm for the foreseeable future.

As far as she can tell, she has two options. She can avoid Constance indefinitely, or try to get back into her good graces. Constance made her choice years ago, when all of Ingrid’s apology letters went unanswered, but if she’s being honest with herself, Ingrid has never quite given up hope.

Besides, if she doesn’t do something, Constance will hate her forever, and the words Ingrid said will continue to haunt her. She has to do this. For her own peace of mind, at least. Ingrid adjusts her skirt, smooths her bangs to the side, and marches confidently out from her hiding spot. This is all going to be just fine.

Until, of course, she walks directly into Constance.

The other girl shies back, bringing an offended hand up to her chest. She’s clutching a fluffy purple fan firmly in hand, and scoffs at the injustice Ingrid has just committed. “Excuse you!” Recognition dawns on Constance’s face in one crashing instant, and she straightens. “Ingrid.” Constance sounds - different. Snootier, maybe. More stuck-up. Meaner.

The last time they met swirls through Ingrid’s head, as do all of the terrible things she said. She was going to apologize, wasn’t she? Or ask for forgiveness? Something like that. “Constance.” She attempts at smile.

Normally, Ingrid hates when Sylvain butts into her conversations. But today, when he slings an arm around her shoulders and grins widely at Constance, it’s all that she ever could have asked for.

“I’ve barely spoken to you,” Sylvain says. “I missed you.”

Constance sniffs. “Of course you did.”

She won’t meet Ingrid’s eyes. Ingrid grimaces and tries to tell herself that she isn’t hiding behind Sylvain’s louder, more welcome presence. She’s braver than that, isn’t she?

“I did!” Sylvain insists. “We were all sad to see you gone. How’d the Empire treat you?”

Constance’s gaze slides over to Ingrid for half a moment, then skates away. “Just as well as it did when it murdered my family in cold blood,” she says, pleasantly. “It is no matter. I will restore House Nuvelle, and all will be as it should!”

Sylvain blinks. “Okay. But what did you do for the last three years?”

Constance sighs. “This and that. Meaningless drivel. Unimportant.”

Sylvain has always been a little bit smarter than Ingrid would like to give him credit. He narrows his eyes and shifts his posture slightly, resting a hand on his hip. “Of course. Who’d you stay with? I don’t want to lose contact with you again.”

It’s a careful dance, this thing. Constance laughs airily and toys with one of her curls. “One of the few family friends that hasn’t completely forsaken us. No one you would know.”

“But you were able to get sponsorship to come to Garreg Mach,” Sylvain notes.

Constance sniffs. “I am of House Nuvelle. I have more than earned my place here.” She pauses. “If you must know, there was some meager amount of money set aside to see to my education.”

Sylvain nods. “Right.”

“It was nice to see you again,” Ingrid says, meekly.

Constance sniffs. “I’m sure it is.”

She pivots on her heels and walks away, leaving Ingrid and Sylvain in the dust.

“Well,” Sylvain says. “Same old Constance.”

“Same old Constance,” Ingrid echoes.

Sylvain leaves her after a few moments, but Ingrid’s mind lingers on the sound of Constance’s voice long after they’re both gone.

-

This is what Ingrid worries about: deep down inside, there’s something rotten at her core. It started to go bad when Glenn died, and with every day that’s passed in this new world where she’s courting suitors and ignoring the way her gaze lingers on women, it festers even more. Someday, it’ll spread to her lungs and kill her. There’s a kind of peace in knowing that she’s going to die young. Most Faerghus children know it. Glenn certainly did.

Ingrid looks at Constance, proud and haughty. Constance almost died young once, and from what Ingrid can tell, she’s not going to do it again.

“It’s good to see you,” Ingrid says, more sincere this time. It’s later, at the stables, their one remaining common ground. Ingrid doesn’t know Constance anymore, but she knows that she loves horses. Constance is taking pegasus lessons, and Ingrid would like to think that it’s due to their slightly ill-advised flight together as children.

“Hmph.” Constance lifts her head, her nose pointed upwards. “I’m sure it is. If you will excuse me, I have business among my own peers that does not concern _you_ in the slightest.”

The implication that Ingrid isn’t one of Constance’s peers hurts, although it’s not without merit. The other girl stalks off, and Ingrid is left alone in the stables, with only the horses for company. 

-

Three years is a long time. Many things have changed, and many more are different in a way that Ingrid could never have imagined them. 

Constance is a Black Eagle, and Ingrid watches her and Edelgard with narrow, slanting eyes. Constance should be in the Blue Lions, with her. Faerghus kept her safe when no one else would, and trained her when the Empire wanted nothing to do with her.

“You’re staring.” A voice startles Ingrid out of her reverie, and she flushes, ducking her head.

“I am _not_ staring!”

Byleth’s laugh is light and airy; barely there at all, really. Ingrid doesn’t know how she feels about this strange new professor, but Dimitri likes her, and Felix is in awe of her skill in battle. Sylvain and her are a little less sure. 

“She’s a Black Eagle, yes? One of Edelgard’s.”

Ingrid shrugs. “Whatever. I don’t know.”

Byleth steps in front of her, blocking Ingrid’s view of Constance. She arches an eyebrow, and Ingrid shrugs again. “Yes. I knew her for awhile as a kid. I… wasn’t expecting to see her here.”

Byleth nods.

Ingrid’s mouth twists. “I said unkind things when we last spoke. I still feel bad about them.” She’s quiet for a long moment, toying with the hem of her skirt. “They’re not the kind of words that an apology can fix.”

“I see,” Byleth says. 

“I just - I’ve _tried_ to apologize!” Ingrid cries. “I’ve done everything I could! I don’t know what else I can do. I can’t take it back.”

Byleth nods. “Time’s arrow marches forwards.”

What is that supposed to mean? Ingrid shrugs. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Byleth turns, looking across the green to Edelgard and Constance. Edelgard flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder, and Constnace laughs, high and lilting. She sticks to the shadows, but Ingrid can picture the glint of the sun on her hair well enough. 

“I don’t know if I should give up.” Ingrid’s confession is heavier than she thought it would be, and she curls a hand into the fabric of her skirt.

Byleth’s face is devoid of all emotion. “Will you regret it five years from now?”

Ingrid regretted her words three years ago as soon as she said them. “Yes.”

Byleth shrugs. “There’s your answer. You’ll figure it out.”

-

Ingrid knows that Dimitri, Sylvain, and Felix used to be friends with Constance too. Dimitri is courteously polite, as always, and Felix goes crawling to her for magic tips after Byleth pushes him into practicing reason, but her and Sylvain are… friends. Friends the way that Ingrid and Constance used to be.

That summer, they’d been so joined at the hip that they’d almost felt like one unit. They were IngridandConstance, together in a way that Ingrid had never been before. She has her friends, her siblings, but she’d never had anyone understand her like Constance. 

Too bad she threw it all away.

“How is she?”

Sylvain scoffs, stretching his arms above his head and arching his back. “Who? I know a lot of girls.”

Ingrid scowls. “You’ll know one less if you keep talking like that. Constance. How is she?”

Sylvain’s ever-present smile dulls. Ingrid can’t remember if it was particularly bright to begin with. “She’s fine. Smart as ever. Still mad at you.”

Ingrid sighs. “You were - outside, when it happened, weren’t you?”

“Is now really the time?”

“We’ve been avoiding this conversation for years,” Ingrid says. “Aren’t you tired of having a list of things we don’t talk about?”

“Not really,” Sylvain replies. “What, do _you_ want to talk about Glenn? No! And I don’t want to talk about Miklan. And as much as you’d like to pretend otherwise, you don’t want to talk about Constance either.”

“But I do!” Ingrid cries. “I’ve tried to talk to her - I wrote her so many letters! More apologies than I’ve ever imagined I could write! She didn’t respond, and she won’t talk to me, and so all I can do is talk about her!”

“That’s the thing,” Sylvain says. His smile is long gone, replaced by a weary look. For the first time in a long while, Ingrid remembers that he’s two years older than her. “There’s only so much an apology can do. I’ve burned my fair share of bridges. It’s best to give up and move on.”

“I don’t want to,” Ingrid snaps. “I… I haven’t moved on. She’s still here, and I could still fix our friendship, and I don’t want to let her go.”

Sylvain shrugs. He reaches out and ruffles her hair, ignoring Ingrid’s indignant squawk. “It’s not always up to you,” he says. He ducks out of her bedroom before she can say anything else, leaving Ingrid alone, her hands balled into tight fists. 

-

“Can we talk?” Ingrid falls into step with Constance on the way to a seminar about dark magic. Truth be told, Ingrid couldn’t care less about the subject, but Constance will be there, and if they’re in class Constance can’t burn her to a crisp with a spell. Probably.

Constance’s gaze slides over to Ingrid. “What could someone like you possibly have to say to someone like me?” She’s timid, afraid, her voice soft and eyes lowered. She’s nothing like Constance.

“I - what?”

“You’re a crest bearing noble,” Constance continues, in that strange, thoroughly un-Constancelike voice. “You have no reason to associate with someone of my standing.”

Ingrid takes half a step back. If this is Constance’s new strategy to get Ingrid to leave her alone, it’s certainly… something. “Constance, it’s me. Ingrid. You lived at my house for a little bit.”

Constance bows her head. “Yes, I did. That was a most kind gesture on the part of your father, to take pity on a wretched soul such as myself. A kindness I will never be able to repay, truly.”

Before Ingrid can get a reply in, they step into the classroom, and Constance’s head snaps up. “What do you want?” she snaps. “Have you come to beg for forgiveness from House Nuvelle once more?”

Ingrid steps back. “I - Constance? What’s going on?”

Constance sniffs. “Nothing you would understand, I’m sure. And none of your business, besides! Why don’t you run along to your foolish little lance lessons, and let those of us who have _real_ talent learn to use it.”

Ingrid has never thought of herself as a coward, but she tucks tail and runs nonetheless.

-

“It was like she was a different person!”

Dimitri stiffens. “Ah. I see. Well, she was always a sensitive girl.”

“No, it wasn’t that!” Ingrid stands up from their table at the library, pacing around the table. “It was like… one instant she was so _scared_ , and the next she was the same old Constance she’d always been!”

“It has been some time since we last saw her,” Dimitri says. He opens his military history textbook, frowning down at it. Even here, he looks like a prince. Always ready to have a portrait painted, that one. “We’ve all changed in that time. Surely she has as well.”

Ingrid sighs. “I suppose. It didn’t feel right though. There was more to it.”

“Her family died when she was very young. We all changed when Glenn died, and are still changing as a result. Perhaps she is in a similar situation regarding her family.”

Dimitri doesn’t seem at all concerned, and seems rather too casual about the whole thing, if you asked Ingrid. She scowls and snaps her book shut. “I need to go,” she says. “I have other things to do.”

She stalks out of the room without so much as an answer to the goodbye that Dimitri calls after her. There’s more going on here. There has to be.

-

Byleth is an excellent teacher, but she has an unfortunate habit of keeping no one informed, not even Dimitri. Instead, Byleth makes decisions, and the rest of them have to adjust accordingly.

Such is the case when Ingrid walks into class on Monday and sees Constance there, notebook open in front of her as she diligently prepares notes. Ingrid stops in her tracks, and nearly drops her books on the ground. “Crap,” she mutters. “Crap!” Constance doesn’t turn around in her chair, just keeps writing.

Dimitri slides into the seat next to Ingrid once everyone has arrived. “Did you know?” she hisses. “About Constance?”

“No. I would have told you, if I had. Surely you do not think so little of me.”

“Dimitri,” Ingrid snaps. “This isn’t about you! What do we do?”

Dimitri frowns. “I do not think we do anything. I will welcome Constance into our class. You should avoid her, I think. Give her some time to adjust. If she was truly intent on never forgiving you, she would not have agreed to join our class.”

Ingrid sighs and turns back to the lecture. “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.”

Her gaze lingers on Constance, though, long after she’s meant to be paying attention to Byleth.

-

With Byleth’s already overzealous involvement in Ingrid and Constance’s friendship, Ingrid is almost surprised that it took her so long to stick them together for weekly chores. It’s flight patrol, which is less involved then some of the other things, but still - this is what Ingrid has been waiting for! They’re alone together, and Constance practically _has_ to talk to her. It’s perfect!

Ingrid saddles up her pegasus and swings onto its back, following Constance up into the sky. She glances at her companion. “Do you remember when we flew together?”

Constance tightens her grip on the reins. “A treasured memory, although one not worthy of a creature such as myself. That was very kind of you, to risk being found out for a fleeting moment of my joy.”

There it is again - the lowered voice, the downcast eyes - it’s all wrong. “Of course,” Ingrid says. “You were - you are - my friend.”

Constance laughs, small and mocking. “Me, friends with you? No, such a thing could never occur. It was a mere flight of fancy. Youthful indiscretion, nothing more.”

Ingrid doesn’t know what to say, and so instead she sinks a little deeper into her saddle. Her pegasus is strong and firm underneath her, and she takes comfort in the fact that this, at least, is something she understands.

When they land, the two girls walk back to the stables together. Once they’re inside, Ingrid turns to Constance. “What you said up there. About our friendship being youthful indiscretion? It’s not true. I know I… hurt you, but the time when you lived at Galatea was amazing. I missed you when you were gone, and no matter what I did to you, I’ll always consider you my friend.”

Constance’s face is her own once more. Her smile is thin and mocking, and yet the cruel tone of her voice is more comforting than any of the soft, pitying statements she’d said earlier. “We may have been friends then, but I will _never_ be friends with someone like you ever again. A true noblewoman should be concerned with her ambitions first and foremost, and you have no relevance in restoring House Nuvelle to its former glory.”

Ingrid flinches back, curling a hand into her mount’s mane. “Right. Of course.”

Constance sniffs. “Is that all you have to say?”

Ingrid presses her lips together into a thin line. “No,” she says. It’s there again, that rot, slowly consuming her whole body. “I’m - sorry. For what I said. I know it’s been three years, and you’ll never forgive me, but I’m sorry.”

Ingrid isn’t sure what she was expecting; a softening from Constance, perhaps. A reconciliation, now that Constance can see she’s suffered and has apologized as sincerely as she’s able to. None of that happens, of course. Constance lets out another shrill, insincere laugh. “Oh, you’re sorry? How kind of you, to stoop to apologizing.” She pulls her halter off her pegasus and latches his stall, then brushes past Ingrid. “An apology won’t fix anything. Shouldn’t you know that by now?”

Ingrid’s shoulders droop. “I don’t know what else to do,” she admits.

There’s no response. Ingrid stands in the barn aisle until it’s long past dinnertime, wishing she could have done it all differently.

-

“I think she’s going to stay mad at me forever,” Ingrid says to Felix, later. They’re studying in his room, which means that Felix is cleaning his sword and Ingrid is lying on her back on his carpet, staring up at his ceiling. 

Felix grunts. Ingrid grunts back.

Ingrid squints. “Did you know there’s a crack in your ceiling?”

Felix sighs. “Shouldn’t you be going to Sylvain to talk about girls? You know I don’t care for any of this.”

“I tried,” Ingrid admits. “He wasn’t any help.”

Felix continues to clean his sword. He’s cross-legged on his bed, with a bottle of sword oil perched next to him and his sword laid out in his lap. He’s looking at it the way that Ingrid looks at a box of chocolates. “Then how am I supposed to help?”

“You were her friend, once.” Ingrid pushes herself up and pushes her palms into the carpet behind her. “You don’t have any bright ideas?”

There’s no answer but the harsh scrape of a whetstone. “When Constance wanted me to like her, she sparred with me. She was terrible, but she taught me about magic, and we respected each other.”

“I know. I was there.”

Felix makes a frustrated movement with the hand holding the whetstone. “Constance doesn’t care about words. She cares about actions. Stop apologizing and _do_ something.”

Who would have thought Felix would be the one to give her half-decent advice? “Hmph.” Ingrid collapses back onto the carpet. “That’s not… a bad point. Now I just have to figure out what to do.”

“That’s not my problem,” Felix snaps. “I gave you advice, and it’s up to you if you take it. You’re distracting me. Get out of my room.”

Ingrid scrunches up her nose in annoyance, but stands and gathers her unopened books. “Thanks,” she says, just before leaving. “I think that might actually help.”

Felix doesn’t reply, but the rasp of his whetstone halts for a moment, and that’s plenty for Ingrid.

-

Actions over words. The thought haunts Ingrid as she goes about her daily routines, her thoughts consumed by Constance. Of course she’d do something, anything, to get this wretched guilt to stop. The only problem is, she has no idea what she should do.

There’s little things, of course, like doing her classwork or chores for her. Those don’t feel right though, or anywhere near the magnitude of the hurt that Ingrid caused her. She needs something big, something that shows that not only is she sorry, but that she truly cares about Constance.

Inspiration comes in the form of Mercedes, talking quietly about her past in the Empire. 

“So you’re related to both houses?” Ingrid asks, butting in on an otherwise private conversation between her and Annette.

Annette shoots her a surprised look, but Mercedes nods gently. “Yes. It wasn’t something my family liked to broadcast, but I’m of a house from the Empire and Faerghus. It’s far more common than many people like to think.” 

Ingrid nods. “Right. Of course. Thank you!” She turns and jogs off, leaving Mercedes and Annette staring after her.

-

It’s not until a few days later that she works up the courage to confront Constance. 

“I wanted you to forgive me,” Ingrid says. “But… not for the right reasons.”

Constance’s eyes narrow. “Go on.”

“I felt bad about what I said to you, and I wanted it to go away. I thought if I just apologized enough times, it would. Instead, all I did was make both of us feel worse.”

Constance doesn’t reply, and so Ingrid takes a deep breath and keeps going. “Felix said something about you not caring about what I said anymore, so…” The documents in Ingrid’s hands feel frail and insignificant, and her handwriting is so messy on some of them that she fears they’re impossible to read. “It’s not much, but.” She takes a deep breath. “I know you want to restore the land you grew up on, but I think you need to consider all your options.”

Constance’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”

Ingrid’s hands tremble as she gives Constance the paperwork. “I went through the Nuvelle family tree. You’re distantly related to a Kingdom House that died out hundreds of years ago. I-I know it’s not the same, but you might be able to restore glory to House Nuvelle without being in the Empire. If you put together a case, Dimitri might be willing to consider it once he’s king.”

Constance leafs through the documents, her mouth falling open in a small, round circle. “You did all this for me?”

Ingrid shrugs.

“Ingrid…” Constance holds the documents to her chest, hugging them close. “This is the kindest gesture that anyone has ever done for House Nuvelle. For me.”

Ingrid shrugs again. “I really am sorry,” she says. “For those awful things I said. I took my anger about Glenn out on you, and that wasn’t fair.”

Constance gives a haughty sniff. “No, it was not.” Her mouth twists. “But… perhaps it was not fair of me to hold on to my anger for so long either.”

Ingrid smiles. “Yeah?”

“ _Perhaps_ ,” Constance repeats. “You are not entirely forgiven, but…” she looks down at the paperwork again, “this certainly is a nice start.”

Ingrid’s heart soars. “Walk with me to class?”

“I’ve nothing better to do,” Constance agrees, falling in step besides her.

-

Things are easier, after that. They eat lunch together, and then walk to their respective classrooms. Sometimes they hang out at the stables together, and Constance helps Ingrid with her magic homework, well Ingrid helps Constance with her flying lessons.

Their time together as friends surely isn’t forever, but things are good in the meantime. 

“Can I ask you something?”

Constance glances over at her. “You already have.”

Ingrid scoffs. “Fine, then. Another something.”

“Mm.” Constance waves a hand.

Ingrid gathers her courage. “Sometimes, when we’re walking together or out on patrol, you’ll suddenly get really quiet. It’s… almost like you’re a different person.”

Constance stiffens. “Ah. So you noticed.”

“I can… pretend not to? If that’s what you want?” Ingrid is aware of how awkward she sounds, but the words come out nonetheless.

“I doubt that would matter much,” Constance says. “I simply dislike the sunlight. It brings back painful memories. It’s always troubled me, but it’s gotten far worse in recent years. It is none of your concern.”

Ingrid curls her hand into a fist. “Right,” she says. “Sorry for asking.”

Constance shrugs. “It is my burden to bear. Don’t bother troubling yourself with it.”

Ingrid nods. “We can take the long way to class from the dining hall, from now on.”

The long way, of course, cuts through the main building of the monastery, meaning it takes almost twice as long. Ingrid will have to sacrifice at least two minutes of meal time to accommodate such a change, but when she sees the pleased glint in Constance’s eye and the slight smile on her face, it feels worth it.

-

The thing about having only Felix, Dimitri, and Sylvain to hang out with as a child is that Ingrid didn’t get to do many of the things that girls do. Even now, she doesn’t. Annette and Mercedes are each other’s best friends first and foremost, and Ingrid is nothing but an interloper. 

With Constance, though, Ingrid can be a girl. There’s a long weekend ahead of them, and when Constance approaches her, almost shyly, and asks to have a sleepover, Ingrid jumps at the chance.

“I’ve never had one of these before,” she confesses. They’re both in their pajamas, and Ingrid’s long hair is loose around her shoulders for once.

Constance laughs. “Really? We had that whole year together as children; do none of the times I fell asleep in your room count?” Ingrid remembers those nights, looking over to see Constance curled up on the far side of her bed. It always made her chest hurt, like there was a feeling too big for it to contain. “That doesn’t count,” she says. “You lived there. Part of the thing about sleepovers is that they’re temporary. You always have to say goodbye.” She blushes. “At least, that’s what Annette said.”

Constance eyes widen. “That is so very melancholy. Are sleepovers not supposed to be happy?”

Ingrid shrugs. “Like I said, I wouldn’t know.”

“Well,” Constance says. “Seeing as this is your very first sleepover, we’ll have to do every ritual you missed out on.. Do you have any makeup?”

Ingrid frowns. “No.”

“Nail polish, then?”

“... Also no.”

Constance sighs. “Ingrid, what _do_ you have?”

Ingrid considers. “A military history of Faerghus, and a lucky horseshoe.”

Constance pinches the bridge of her nose. “That is all exceedingly unhelpful. Surely you must know what I mean.”

“I don’t have girly things!” Ingrid cries. “Only military history! I might have one of the Empire somewhere, if that does it for you!”

Constance stares at her incredulously, then breaks down into laughter. It starts as her affected, snooty laugh that Ingrid has grown accustomed to hearing, but the longer she laughs the more it starts to break down, until she finally laughs so hard she snorts. Constance slaps her hands over her mouth, looking at Ingrid with wide eyes.

A peal of laughter erupts from Ingrid before she can stop it, and although Constance tries to look offended, the two of them laugh and laugh until Ingrid is sick to her stomach. She wipes a tear away from the corner of her eye, and then settles against the wall. “That wasn’t very ladylike.”

Constance elbows her in the ribs. “I assure you I am _perfectly_ ladylike at all times. A Nuvelle does not ever act outside of her social class.”

Ingrid arches an eyebrow, and Constance’s mouth twitches. This time, Ingrid is the one who breaks down into laughter first, and Constance follows close behind. It takes them both ages to catch their breath, and by the time they do Ingrid has a headache from all the laughter. It’s nice, though. She can’t remember the last time joy was the cause of her pain, rather than misery and hurt. It’s a nice change.

They lean against each other, Ingrid’s head on Constance’s shoulder. There’s a quiet space after all this laughter, and Ingrid finds some sort of solace in it. “Do you like it? Being a Blue Lion?”

Constance sighs. “It’s fine. I like the students well enough. I knew Mercedes as a young girl, and you and your friends after that. Dedue is kind to me, and Annette is a skilled magic user. Ashe, while we don’t have much in common, is nice enough.”

“But do you _like_ it?” Ingrid presses. She isn’t sure why it’s suddenly of paramount importance to her that Constance enjoy her time in the Blue Lions, but it is.

“I suppose so.” Constance’s voice grows soft. “I… it is very different than the Black Eagles. I knew Ferdinand when I was young, and I had ambitions to become friends with Edelgard. I was there to succeed, not make friends. I have never pictured myself somewhere like this.”

“And?”

“And now I have. The family tree you made was reason enough to do so. It’s… I love the Empire, but perhaps I had best consider that there are other options out there.”

Ingrid’s heart thuds in her chest. “There are.” 

Constance looks over at her. “Why do you care so much?” It’s there, on the tip of Ingrid’s tongue. If she was just a bit braver, she’d say it. Instead, she shrugs. “You’re my friend. I’d be sad if we stopped seeing each other once school ended.”

Constance lets out a trilling laugh. “Fear not. I will continue to grace you with my presence as often as I am permitted to do so.”

Ingrid smiles and presses her shoulder against Constance’s. “Good, I’m glad.”

They fall asleep like that, leaning up against each other. Ingrid wakes up with a terrible crick in her neck, but it’s worth it for the small, shy smile that Constance shoots her. Her heart thuds with a secret even she can’t name, and as the two of them head off to breakfast, she can’t help but wish every day could start like this one.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter @edelgardlesbian


End file.
